


peeling the skin off my soul

by freakedelic



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon Typical Violation of the Geneva Convention, Cigarettes, Dehumanization, Established Big Boss/Ocelot, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Gray Fox/Solid Snake, Implied/Referenced Kazuhira Miller/Big Boss, Implied/Referenced Kazuhira Miller/Solid Snake, Incest, M/M, Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake, Minor Canonical Major Character Death, Shock Collars, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Voyeurism, needlessly complex incestuous family structures, the porn grew a relationship study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Big Boss has mixed feelings towards his clone.(or, the au where Snake is unlucky enough to get captured in Zanzibarland)
Relationships: Big Boss/Solid Snake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	peeling the skin off my soul

**Author's Note:**

> blame user rotsquad for this. technically this is part of a larger au where ocelot hangs out with john in ZL which is why he's here. i was VERY mad about the lack of john/dave rapefic in the tag and decided to do my part to make this fandom a better, hornier place.
> 
> if you're here for sladin, i'm sorry i promise i'm working on my longer fic. i really needed to get this out of my system though.

The collar is heavy and uncomfortable. He can't stop his hands from shaking - not from fear, not right now. Dave feels too tired for fear, like part of his soul in inhabited has been hollowed out. Instead, the electric shock torture sends his muscles spasming even when he doesn't mean to move them. He fists his hands clumsily, with his unbroken fingers, trying to stop it. Right now, all he wants to focus on is the fact that he's not in excruciating pain. Dave had been let down from the chains, had been stripped and hosed down, had been given clean clothes. The only thing he smells is the stench of cigarette smoke that permeates the office.

Ocelot seems to be waiting for something. He leans against the wall, one hand on one of the revolvers at his hip. It looks like it's out of habit, but Dave knows that the other hand is ready at the trigger for the collar around his neck. That brings electricity enough to send him to the floor, panting. Right now all Dave wants is to not hurt for a while. Even if hunger gnaws at his stomach and he limps on a bad leg and his fingernails are bandaged - Ocelot isn't digging into him, isn't circling him, isn't hurting him. Dave had never met him before this.

He thinks if he hates anyone, he hates him. But he feels too hollow to hate.

The door flicks open. Dave flinches. Ocelot twitches in expectation, spurred boots pushing him up from leaning to stand tall. The man who enters is instantly recognizable.

Big Boss.

He has a cigar in his hand and he doesn't look surprised to see Dave or Ocelot. The door clicks shut behind him.

The hollow parts of Dave begin to fill up, but he doesn't know with what. The numbness falls away but it feels as if the blood is rushing back into his emotions, tingling and painful.

"Glad to see you, Boss," Ocelot says. There's something under his tone, inscrutable. Big Boss nods, smoke trailing from his cigarette. This is his office, Dave realizes. He'd known that Big Boss was here, in Zanzibarland, on some level. It had faded into the back of his mind in the past . . . time. It had been him in the end, before he’d been pushed to the ground.

Dave . . .

Dave doesn't want to think he would've let it happen. He'd been trained to resist torture, and he _had_ resisted. As far as he remembers. At some point, the layers of his mind being peeled apart with his skin and bones, it had become fuzzy and vague, a mess of pain. Big Boss, _John_ , can't have known? He wouldn't have let this happen? Wouldn't have given him to his endlessly sadistic underling?

Big Boss grunts in acknowledgment. He doesn't speak much. They had always been the same, like that. Dave feels more real than he has for too long. It's not even pleasant. The man strides over. He should tower over Dave, but instead he's eye to eye - Dave's two to Big Boss's one, which makes up for it in too much intensity.

Dave lets out a hiss of pain as the cigarette burns through his cheek. He tries to flinch away but a hand holds him there, the butt of it melting his cheek, until all that's left is smoke and ash. Big Boss grinds it in, eyes fixed on Dave's. All Dave can smell is cigarette smoke, is the man's breath.

He lets go. Dave feels like he should say something but his tongue is numb in his mouth. It feels like a lump of fat, unconnected to his nervous system.

This is John. This is the real one. Dave knows that it is. The other one had been a copy—a good one, but a copy. The one that stands in front of him wields every bit of Big Boss’s charisma and presence. It could be nobody else.

“John,” Dave rasps.

Pain explodes over the side of his face. Dave tastes blood and the tooth on the right side of his mouth that hasn’t come out yet loosens even more as his head snaps to the side. It’s not the pain but the shock of it that makes him hiss. He hadn’t seen it coming.

That’s a metaphor for his whole life, right about now.

“You tried to destroy me,” he rumbles. “You came into my country and you put a gun to my head. You killed my men. And you still have the nerve to call me by _that_ name?”

Dave thinks he can hear Frank screaming, high-pitched and ecstatic. He feels dizzy. Big Boss is trying to spin this as if _he_ was the one who betrayed _him_ , as if John wasn’t the one who defected, as if he wasn’t the on who betrayed everything in the world.

As if he hadn’t betrayed _Dave_.

Ash splashes to the floor from the end of his cigar. Dave’s cheek burns. “Too bad, David. I almost thought you could be something other than one of their stupid toys. Does Kazuhira still moan like a whore when you fuck him?”

Big Boss says it like he’s speaking about the weather. The name sounds familiar but strange to his ears as he strains to place it—

Master Miller.

“How do you—”  
Big Boss stabs a finger into the middle of Dave’s chest. “You think the whole world revolves around you? I knew Miller decades before he decided to use you for his revenge. This is _all_ bigger than you.”

Dave feels like a fish gasping for air. He remembers—telling Ocelot something. About him and Master Miller. He’d admitted to their relationship, hadn’t he? He hadn’t thought they’d known each other. Master Miller would’ve told him, wouldn’t he? Big Boss is just . . . making things up.

“But the living weapon thinks it’s all about _him_ ,” Big Boss murmurs. “They never saw you as anything but a _tool_. Not the US government, not Miller.”

_Not you?_ Dave wants to ask but the words are as ashy as the man’s cigarette on his cheek.

“ . . . Not as anything but my goddamned bastard.”

Dave falls through the floor. He’s spinning again, dizzy. It feels like a dream—the kind he’d had before, when he was half-drunk and melancholic. John had been . . .

He had wanted him to be . . .

“You’re—”

“Your father? Of a sort. But you aren’t my son.” Big Boss’s face twists into an expression that makes Dave’s heart sink into his boots. “You’re a sick experiment, made to be used to _bring me down_.”

Dave remembers shooting the man in Outer Heaven. He’d looked exactly like John, save for a few more scars. He’d been in his dreams more times than he could count, after that. It had haunted his dreams. He remembers John teaching him shooting, he remembers a dirty bar where they had drunk whiskey that burned his throat and John had looked off into the distance like he could see something nobody else could. It had devolved into a slurry of blood and screaming and bullets—

Now it’s back, and it’s twisted into something even crueler.

“You betrayed me,” is all Dave can hiss, low in his throat, staring into something he doesn’t understand. “You betrayed our _unit_. You were—you—”

“You’re a goddamn fool.” He steps forward. Dave can smell his breath, hot with cigarette smoke. “This isn’t about _you_. This is about _them_. The people pulling on your strings like a pathetic fucking puppet. I was never on their side. But if you had _asked_ —well, you could be right by my side, like Gray Fox was.”

“You’re a terrorist,” Dave says, incredulous. His face darkens. His hollowness grabs on to anything it can find to fill itself, the anger hot in his gut. “You’re a traitor. I should’ve gunned you down.”

It would have been his father’s face in his dreams, staring back at him with one bloody eye.

“You,” Big Boss growls, “aren’t even _human_.” A heavy hand closes around the top of his shirt, keeping him steady. Ready to hurt him. “You’re something cooked up by the government. A fake they made so they could fight _me_. Every inch of you is _mine._ Stolen from me to turn on its master.”

David feels dizzy, unbalanced. What he’s saying can’t be true. This has to be—some kind of strange torture, something made to shred the last bits of his humanity. John can’t be saying these things, because these things aren’t true. Bits of him are being torn off to dust the floor, swept away by the wind.

Big Boss certainly believes what he’s saying. Had he known that Dave had wanted a father? Known that he had been . . . the closest thing?

“You betrayed your country,” Dave accuses, because he cannot voice the things that live in his mind.

“My country,” the other man snarls, “betrayed _me_.” He pulls back but his fist in Dave’s shirt comes with him. Dave stumbles forward, impotent and dizzy. He catches a glance of Ocelot out of the corner of his eye, still there, still . . . watching. “’Your’ country thinks the same thing of you that they think of _me_. You’re just too _goddamn stupid_ to see it.” He shakes him, every ache of Dave’s rattling through his skeleton.

Dave tries to pull himself free. He realizes too late that it’s a bad idea. The hands tighten on his collar, John’s well-honed muscles tensing as he throws him to the side. Dave goes reeling. He knows instinctually that he should be able to catch himself but he feels weakened muscles give out under him. The back of the man’s desk slams hard into the bottom of his back. He manages to get mangled fingers under him, wincing at the agony.

Big Boss stalks towards him, the epitome of barely disguised fury. His eye is hard as diamonds, glittering in the fluorescent lights. Dave feels alarms he thought were broken blare in his mind as he stares up at him. He jerks forward, raising a fist that aches out of instinct, even if the punch will—

He screams. Every bit of him is lit on fire, muscles not responding to his cues as he feels himself fall ever so slowly forwards. It shakes him to his core, the agony too familiar and always horrible.

When he comes back to himself, seconds later, he can hear Ocelot clicking his tongue. He can smell something burning. Dave’s fallen against John, cheek smashed into the chest of his uniform. Rough hands grab his shoulders and throw him violently down. This time Dave almost thinks the desk will break, but it stays painfully lodged into him as John shoves him bodily onto it.

Dave tries to kick before his body dissolves into a slurry of pain and twitching muscles. John’s hands close around his wrists.

He pants up at the ceiling, the light in his eyes. John is between his legs so he can’t kick, leaning over and casting a long, cruel shadow.

“You’d think something modeled after _me_ would have a little bit more bite to it,” he hisses. “But you’re _not_ me. You’re a pathetic copy. A weapon. They wanted me to train something to defeat myself.”

He keeps saying the same things over and over, but it’s not making sense to Dave. He curls his hands into fists. Everything hurts.

Dave’s so tired, and he _hates_ this position. But he doesn’t want to move again and risk being shocked. His hands are still shaking from the last time Ocelot hit the shock collar.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nobody told you, David. They cooked you up in a lab. They used _my_ DNA, used a surrogate, all because they wanted me back. Because they couldn’t control me. But they can control you.”

“A . . . lab?”

“Cloning isn’t quite perfected,” Big Boss rumbles. “They wanted me to train you. To make you like _me_ so they could use you all over again and put you to death on the battlefield when they were done with you.”

He presses down on Dave’s wrists, flattening him against the desk, displacing the already fallen and messed papers.

“Maybe I should just kill you right here,” he growls. “That would be a mercy. They wouldn’t own you anymore.”

Dave just stares up at him. The hollowness is gone, he realizes. All he can feel is the man he’d looked up to, the man who had _trained_ him, the man who he’d almost seen as a _father_ —

All he can feel is pain, the sharp broken bits of him digging into the meat of his soul.

“After all,” he keeps talking, “we’re soldiers, you and I. We fight and we die. We can’t go back. You tried to go back, didn’t you, David?” He laughs hollowly. Dave wonders if there’s anything inside him. If they’re made of the same pain. “You found out what happens, when war gets in your blood. Infects you like a disease. And we’re all _sick_.”

He leans in further. Dave’s heart sounds in his ears. It feels like John’s fingers bruise to the bone. His arms are pulled apart, legs useless, and Dave musters up anger to hide behind.

Big Boss studies him for a second. Then he seems to come to a decision. A hand drops one of Dave’s wrists. Dave doesn’t fight it. He can see Ocelot out of the corner of his vision, one eye still on the electric trigger, ready to send agony through his body.

He comes up with a knife.

For a slow, long second Dave is sure that he is going to die pushed on a desk in a country a continent away from his home. Instead, it cuts down his chest shallowly. It takes a few hazy seconds for Dave to realize what he’s doing.

Given clothes only for them to be taken away again. Typical.

He only stills when the combat knife starts to cut a thin, bloody line down the curve of his thigh. The intimate position he’d been forced into in the scuffle suddenly gains new meaning.

“Get off me,” he says, voice stiff.

The knife keeps cutting down his leg. He can feel a calloused hand on his stomach. Dave has been in positions like this before, when they sparred, sweat and faux danger, but this isn’t . . . _right_.

Maybe he wouldn’t have minded, had it been another circumstance. Another place. Before.

“Do you even want to live?” Big Boss asks. His voice doesn’t sound angry, but his eyes are vicious. “Do you even have a point without someone to give you orders?”

Dave stares at him. He . . . doesn’t know. Even before Ocelot . . .

He’s supposed to be a soldier, isn’t he? Someone who fights to the end? He doesn’t feel that way. But he supposes it’s drilled into the marrow of his bones. Inescapable as Big Boss is on top of him.

“Not here,” he growls. “I don’t want to die here.”

“And you’d go running right back to your masters.” Big Boss’s voice carries a disgust that makes Dave feel as filthy as anything Ocelot has done to him.

His hand slides lower.

If it was Ocelot, Dave thinks he could’ve taken it. He’d seen the man get hard off of hurting him enough, had a few things put inside him he didn’t want there.

This is John.

Dave’s hand shoots forward. Pain overtakes him, a long, dragged-out thing as he hears a voice screaming far away, low and half-broken. The lights scream at him. His body falls and falls and falls.

It is over, and he can feel his body heaving against the desk. Something digs into his back. The screaming stopped. The screaming that was his.

From his hips down, he’s utterly naked. Big Boss is still in between them, a hand on Dave’s chest. Dave looks up at him. The face is so familiar. Close to his, even.

More than one person had thought they looked the same.

It’s all he can see, now.

Begging won’t help. Dave still doesn’t want to disappoint him, somehow. Begging would be a disappointment. Instead he clenches his teeth and takes long breaths and tries not to look at his face.

“You’ve never been fucked,” John says. His voice is factual but there’s something else there, too.

Dave doesn’t remember telling Ocelot that. He must’ve, though. At some blurry time. The humiliation curls hot inside him as he wonders how much they know about him, how much they’ve seen. Too much for anyone. John’s right, though. The biggest thing he’s had inside him was the head of one of Ocelot’s revolvers. Somehow he thinks this will be bigger.

He’s been in worse pain, he tells himself.

Two thick fingers shove into him. Dave arches beside himself, in pain. He grits his teeth. They hurt already. He suspects this isn’t for his benefit at all as they scissor in him.

This is John, he knows, but it’s not real if he doesn’t look.

This could be—Miller.

_Does Kazuhira still_ —

Dave tries to shut his brain down. Tries to dissociate like he’s been taught to. But that’s with strangers, with faceless people looking to cause him agony.

This is John.

Dave doesn’t know how to cope with _John_. He hadn’t, when he’d killed him. This is so much worse.

The fingers leave. It’s a relief, but it’s not a good thing. Doing something, Dave thinks, will be painful. All it will do is hurt him. All it will do is make him _scream_ all over again.

Something hot prods against him. It bumps against his thigh, finding its way. A hand clamps into his thigh and presses it up in an uncomfortable stretch, the muscles aching. 

Dave feels more exposed than he has in his life.

He stares at the ceiling. The press starts gentle. Then the pressure increases as the friction and the resistance do. The pain begins. 

Dave imagines he’s not here. He’s not thinking about it. Not thinking about how his muscles start to stretch until they reach their limit and are torn. Not thinking about every _fucking_ inch that’s shoved into him dry.

It hurts. Dave thinks it can’t be pleasant for John either. He’s tried to shove in when Frank was too tight, only to have to pull out and find some lube. But John isn’t stopping anytime soon. Instead, he _slams_ in, Dave choking back on his surprised cry of pain.

When he finally feels John’s balls against the cleft of his ass, he breathes out, almost in relief. That’s all there is to take, even if it’s too much. It feels—not good. It feels like something stuck in his intestinal tract, which there is.

Then he starts to move and it feels like something is _shredding_ his intestinal tract. Dave tastes blood, and realizes he’s bit down. His hands fist. John presses his hand further into his thigh, pressing back, opening him up. The momentum makes his balls slap against him.

All he can do is breathe. Breathe through it.

Pretend it’s not happening.

Pretend it’s not John that’s inside him, that’s ruining him, that’s growling low in his throat like an animal. Every thrust tears more of him apart. Some part of him feels like it’s being slowly undone, shaken out of him with the violence with which John attacks him. His fingers bruise.

There has to be somewhere to look, somewhere to escape to. There’s movement out of the corner of his eye, John flicking his eyes over—

Ocelot’s hand is on the controller for his shock collar, the other in his pants, the fly unzipped. Dave can’t see his face from this angle. He’s glad.

A safety clicks off. A shock goes through him, eyes wide open. The barrel is pressed against his lips and it tastes like gunpowder and oil, shaking against its target with every thrust.

“Look at me,” John says, and his voice is rough.

Dave can’t.

A small shock. Dave tenses and hisses, muscles clenching against the thing inside him, spasming.

John groans, buried balls deep.

The gun jams against his lips insistently.

“Do you really want to die with my cock up your ass?”

Dave looks. There’s something insane in John’s eye, a bead of sweat on his brow. It’s him, though. The leader of the FOXHOUND unit. The man he’d known. The man he’d trusted.

The parts of him slipping away leave him in a torrent, pulling him along. He can’t look away, now, not with the gun pressed against him, not as he looks at John, face tense in concentration. His hips snap in perfect rhythm, unending.

He doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying himself.

Dave forgets to keep his teeth clenched. The gun slides further into him, pressed painfully against the roof of his mouth. It tastes like smoke. John groans. Dave tries to breathe through it.

John could pull the trigger now, lips clenching and panting and _raping_ him, and Dave doesn’t think he’d feel a thing.

It’s a true relief when his hips start to stutter, his groaning louder. Dave watches him through lidded eyes. The gun shoves so far in his throat he chokes, saliva sputtering.

The electricity flicks on and he _screams_ , unable to stop himself, a loud and insane thing.

The light dances in his eyes. The gun is gone, leaving saliva trailing down his chin. John looks at him with nothing in his eyes. Dave feels . . .

He feels like something has been wedged in those sharp cracks in himself, like the vice meant to pry him apart has found a place to put itself. Something too-hot dribbles down his crack, against his thighs.

Ocelot is licking come off of his red-gloved hand, looking like a smug housecat.

John turns as if he can’t bear to look at Dave a second longer. “Get him out,” he says roughly.

“Of course, Boss.”

**Author's Note:**

> my mgs twitter is [@broconocelot](https://twitter.com/broconocelot)
> 
> i will not apologize for this fic because mg2 dave makes me go feral


End file.
